Don't You Want to Share the Guilt?
by ecj30
Summary: A post-Obsession story where Tony and Ziva address what needs to be addressed.
1. Chapter 1

Note: This story was inspired by Kate Nash's "Don't You Want to Share the Guilt?" which is awesome and highly recommended. I don't want to call it a songfic, even though that's pretty much what it is; it follows the lyrics loosely because damn, they're just so perfect!  
Starts post-Obsession but has other flashbacks as well. This one is heavily Jet Lag based. It'll be multi-chaptered, but I realize most of this will be completely null and void after Tuesday and I probably won't finish before then.  
Also, this is my first fanfic, so hooray for that.

_Barbeque food is good. You invite me out to eat it; I should go.  
__But I'm feeling kind of nervous and not quite myself, so I'm running late on purpose and I know this won't help.  
__How things have come between us, and if I go you'll give me hell. And that I don't know how to fix it is making me unwell._

Checking her phone at 6 a.m., she saw that his message was timed around 2. She knew Tony was upset and mentally berated herself for missing his call. He had probably gone to Gibbs; after he dealt with personal problems his pseudo-father had always seemed uncharacteristically exhausted at work the next day, downing more coffees than usual and even distributing Caf-Pows to Abby more liberally.

Yes, Tony went to Gibbs when he was distraught. Not her. Just when she thought things were getting back to normal, when things appeared to be settling down from the hell they had been, these little reminders screamed discontent, discomfort, distrust. She sighed and listened to the voicemail.

"Ziva, Ziva," he slurred. "Let's hang out. Let's do something. There's a new place in Georgetown. I mean not right now. Not now, it's late. Or early. However you look at it. Anyways, there's a new place in Georgetown. All the new places are always in Georgetown, aren't they? Let's go tomorrow. It's Saturday. Maybe lunch. Lunch-ish. Yeah. How about you just come over tomorrow at lunch-ish time? Just come over, and then we can go. Okay….bye."

She heard him fumble the phone before it cut off. Sighing again, she wondered why Gibbs thought it was appropriate to sufficiently intoxicate Tony and allow him to continue to make calls. The sun had barely peeked through her curtains and she was hesitant to believe the validity of Tony's inquiry, let alone think he would be ready any time around "lunch-ish." Having already been for a run, she sat down on her bed and contemplated what she was sure Tony would call her 'game plan' for the day. She could call him back. She could show up at his apartment as directed. But she knew he wouldn't remember. She could ignore the call entirely. But on the off chance he did have any miniscule recollection of the message, their situation could very easily spiral downwards from its already dismal location. His vulnerability made her decision all the more important. That girl had worn him down unnecessarily and his choice to call her, inebriation aside, could very well be the major step she needed to take to ease the tension at last.

There had always been tension. The attraction between them had been undeniable from day one. Of course he was drawn in by her exotic nature; she had unexpectedly been engrossed by his arrogant sense of entitlement and immature character. The surprise had really come when her position became permanent, and they became partners; they became friends. They would take up each other's space and get in each other's brain. Jeanne changed that. Michael changed that. Somalia changed that. By the time she followed him into the bathroom that afternoon, their relationship was in shambles. Once the holidays rolled around, she assumed everything was back to normal, or as close to normal as it would ever get after everything had happened.

Apparently she was wrong.

Light began to flood her room and she looked wearily at the clock. 6:30. She listened to the voicemail again, trying to come closer to a decision and failing. Part of her wanted to rush to Tony's place right then, to make sure he was fine. Another part—a part which was winning the battle with little difficulty—wanted to ignore the call, run her errands, and deal with Tony on Monday. But both parts agreed that decisions were better made after a shower.

As the water cascaded over her body, she thought of Paris. They both knew on the flight over that things would happen. The eight hours of silence without sleep was a testament to the inevitability of their actions. Ironic, she now chuckled to herself, since she had adamantly denied any certainty of the inevitable when Jenny died.

When they arrived at the hotel, she raised her voice while accepting their single room with no argument, much to the confusion of the clerk. Her perfect French would be completely disregarded by Tony, so tone was the only way to prove her blatant lie when she told him the hotel was overbooked and they would have to share. The look he gave her then shot fear and guilt through her mind; surely he knew her bluff. If he did, however, he did not verbalize his thoughts and they carried their bags to the third floor in silence.

Silence, which she was labeling a central theme of their mission, continued as the pair noted the lack of another bed in the room. A small chaise lounge was facing the balcony; she unconsciously bit her lip as her gaze traveled from the lounge to Tony. Would he make a call? Be chivalrous and let her take the king sized bed? Whine about his back until she conceded defeat? Or, and she secretly hoped this would be the case, neither?

He shook his head, the motion nearly imperceptible except to someone like her, whose senses were trained to catch the details and whose adrenaline was surging enough for her to identify every tiny motion. Their eyes met as he dropped his bags unceremoniously on the floor and hers quickly followed. Darkness was slowly setting in; neither of them had eaten or slept in hours, but neither looked as if they cared.

As she turned up the heat of her shower, she recalled the focus with which he watched her. His steps were silent as he slowly—but at the same time so, so quickly—walked over to where she was standing, took her face in his hands, and slammed his mouth on hers. Her gasp, which was really almost a moan, of surprise was ignored by both of them, because it would have been ridiculous for either of them to honestly think this wasn't coming.

Her hands untucked his shirt and ran up his chest as he tangled his fingers in her wild curls and continued walking until he had her firmly pressed against the wall. Their kisses became more and more urgent until air turned into an unwanted necessity and they broke apart, gasping for air.

Tony stepped back from her, lips as swollen and red as she was sure hers were. He glanced at his watch and said, "We should…we should probably eat some dinner or something. I hear French food is pretty good actually." She laughed rather sardonically and grabbed her bag, mentally pleased that he had stopped the progression.

They ate at a café on the corner, in less silence than expected, and the mood lightened considerably. This is the turning point, she thought, as they strolled around nighttime Paris. The lights were embracing them, their happy laughter ringing through the streets.

They stopped on a bridge crossing the Seine and stood there, closely together, watching people walk past them, watching the river rush beneath their feet. Tony looked at her, his eyes searching, before turning away and heading back towards the hotel.

Entering the room, she checked her watch. Nearly midnight. Had they really spent that long roaming the city? Tony kicked off his shoes and fell back onto the bed, sighing happily. She smiled and sat down on the opposite side of the bed, watching him curiously out of the corner of her eye. He shifted up onto his elbows as she leaned down, and their lips met again with a slightly muted intensity, but the intent was still painfully there.

Clothes were quickly discarded as Tony placed searing kisses down her neck. Their bodies tangled under the sheets until both were too exhausted to do anything but sleep, contentedly wrapped around each other.

The water in the shower turned ice cold, a sure sign that the neighbors were awake and had eliminated the remainder of the hot water. She stepped into her foggy bathroom and wrapped herself in a towel before walking into her room to check the time. Still only 7. As she got dressed, she wondered about the time frame for 'lunch-ish.' Would it be around 11? Noon? The hours would not go by quickly enough.

Before she knew it though, noon had come and gone. If Tony did remember his offer from the night before, he would surely be angry for her unusual lateness. Grabbing her keys, she neared her door and paused. Did she really want to do this? Was she prepared to deal with an emotionally distraught Tony? Could she fix it?

She knew the answer to her last question. She had attempted to take his mind off of Dana. Clearly it hadn't worked. Even movie references, which previously would have made him shine with pride, could not break the resolve he had for finding her. Worried did not begin to describe her feelings; he was pining over a girl he did not know. Worse, she had died. His small success at finding her, of having that glimmer of hope, was extinguished within hours. Grief overwhelmed him and she was helpless.

With that thought, she slowly made her way to her car to face whatever Tony would throw at her. Maybe this was the real shift in their relationship, the real rebuilding of trust. She'd have to see when she got there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Note: Wow, so, the five million emails I received with favorites, alerts, and reviews were unexpected but extremely awesome. I hope you continue to enjoy it! This is more of the Obsession-based chapter. And I'm going to ignore the order of the lyrics because they'll work better if I mix them up haha**  
**So without further ado…the escape from my AP Biology studying**!

* * *

_Well I arrive at your house, but you've just got up.  
And you are wearing a towel and your eyes look dark.  
I help to dry your body and I see your cut  
So I give you a plaster and we cover it up.  
I say, "Have you been crying?" and you say, "Shut up"  
So we sit in the garden and touch the grass with our hands_

Having sat in the car for a good ten minutes, debating internally (and sometimes aloud) whether or not to actually get up and go inside, she decided to just go up to his apartment. He lived on the second floor…if she took the stairs, it would give her plenty of time to back out if necessary.

"Shit," she muttered forcefully, glancing at the clock in her car and slamming her door open. All this thinking was going to give her an aneurism, and at the very least, it was turning her mood sour. Her energy had built up throughout the morning and was finally coming to its peak; if she didn't release it soon she would probably explode on Tony, which his hungover, heartbroken psyche probably did not need. To her well-thought-out plan's chagrin, she took the steps by twos and was at his door in seconds.

So much for backing out.

Knocking on his door, she wondered how long it would take for him to reach it from whatever state of unconsciousness he might happen to be in at the time, and if it were long enough for her to dash back to the stairs and out to her car. Before she finished the thought, she saw the light behind his peephole flash as he stuck his eye to the door. Chains and locks were undone and the door flung open to reveal a tired, angry, _raw_ Tony. She was definitely not prepared for this.

Stepping inside without his permission, she looked him up and down, noticing his wet body and towel loosely twisted around his hips. Damn, was that attraction still there or what? She swallowed heavily and moved aside; his scent was intoxicating and she could hardly breathe. The silence was overwhelming, pressing down on her to the point of suffocation.

"Does this count as lunch-ish time?" she asked, praying that he would remember his call and they could address the underlying issues.

"Well, I'm not going to lie, I wasn't expecting you to actually show up," he said, voice lathered in disgust. "Don't you have more important things to be doing than standing here in my living room? You've never responded to any of my drunken voicemails before, why this one? And by the way, you are way late for lunch." She sighed. This conversation was going to be harder than expected.

"Tony. We both know that lunch is not the reason I am here. You let that girl get to you and now you are hurting." Might as well put it all out on the table from the beginning. Like ripping of a band aid, he told her once.

She heard him suck in air sharply, his chest heaving. "You don't beat around the bush, do you, Ziva?"

"I did not think it would be…appropriate for us to try and ignore the rhinoceros in the room," she said, purposely messing up the colloquialism in a rough attempt to lighten the mood.

He smirked, "Elephant, Ziva. And nice try, I know you know that one. Really, what are you doing here? I'm clearly not ready to go eat lunch, and it's almost two anyways. I just got up. You might as well leave now."

Well then. She had several options at this point. Option 1 was to leave and pretend this never happened, pretend on Monday that she hadn't come over and seen him weak. Option 2 was to stubbornly stick around, wait until he talked to her. Option 3 was to push the subject until he caved. Sadly, none of these were particularly appealing to her. Making eye contact for what she realized was the first time since her arrival, she noticed their swollen redness. This variety of bloodshot did not come from alcohol.

"Tony…have you…have you been crying?" Her face fell. She knew he was obsessed, enthralled, completely absorbed by this girl, but she had not realized the real extent of the damage her death had done.

His face hardened. "You know what Ziva? Just shut up," he yelled. "Shut up. You don't get it, do you? There could have been something, but now I'll never know, will I? No, because she's _dead._"

The words sent a chill through her heart and her mouth dropped open. Dana was his Roy. A fleeting desire, a hope for the future, ended after so brief a time. Not to mention his words nearly mirrored hers from last summer in Tel Aviv. Dana was his Michael, too. She no longer judged him for his desperate want of what could have been, but anger began to bubble inside of her at his insensitivity, his thinking that she was totally blind to how he was feeling.

He took her silence and expression as surprise and hurt, which maybe they were, and he immediately began to apologize for his words. "Shit, look, I'm sorry," he said, running his hand down his face. "I didn't think… I forgot…"

"You did not think, did you?" she interrupted, "Did not realize that the _exact_ same thing had happened to me, happened to me twice? Did not remember that if anyone would know how you felt, it would be _me_?" Her voice had gradually risen to a shrill scream. Could he have really thought Gibbs would be the better comforter when she had been broken by the same problem?

The shouting match had begun. "Well I don't know, _Ziva_, you haven't exactly been approachable lately, have you? Hell, we've barely spent time together since Paris. Just once, and then that bastard Werth showed up again. What happened? What changed?"

Her jaw clenched and she turned away to gain her composure as he continued. "I mean, I thought things were going just fine. But apparently you thought differently, then what was I supposed to do? Wait around until you decided it was _convenient_ for you to talk to me about anything of importance, to want to be friends again? No. I wasn't going to do that to myself."

She faced him again, her shirt brushing his still-wet chest. "Maybe you should have tried a little harder. Maybe you should stop thinking about yourself for once," she whispered menacingly.

"Ohhh, stop thinking of myself?" His eyes widened with mirth and he breathed out a bark of laughter. "Just like I did when I saved your ass from that shithole in Somalia?"

"This conversation has nothing to do with Somalia," she said coldly. "This conversation has to do with you and that reporter and what did not happen. I cannot grasp why you are beating yourself up over her, Tony. She is dead. There was nothing you could do. It was not your fault."

With that, the air the room, once hotly charged with anger, fell flat around them. "I know that," he said softly, sadly. "But it doesn't make it better."

The two became vividly aware of their close proximity when the fury between them was lost. Still holding his towel in one hand, Tony reached up with the other and rested it at the nape of her neck, pulling her mouth deftly and hastily to his. She tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let her escape and soon she was falling, surrendering, waving her white flag, because honestly, there wasn't a part of her that didn't want this. Gently prying the towel from his fingers, she dried his stomach and chest as his suddenly free hand ran around her waist to the small of her back, pressing her body fully into his. Her hands, dropping the towel, smoothed over his shoulder blades as his tongue begged for entrance between her lips.

Of course she complied. Before long, his hands had found their way under her shirt, caressing her bare back, and his mouth had sucked a quick mark onto her exposed collarbone. She moaned as he felt him pressing against her stomach, hard and ready. He tugged on the hem of her shirt, pulling it, asking for permission for its removal. Sealing her lips against his again, she took his hands in her own and helped him drag it over her head, separating only for an instant as the shirt covered her face. Her pants quickly followed, and Tony began to stumble forward, sloppily directing her into his bedroom. As she tripped over the threshold, her heart began to pound. He was upset. He wasn't himself. Would this be pity sex?

His head dipped down to her neck, placing hot, wet kisses down from her ear to her shoulder. After catching her breath, she whispered, "Tony? Tony. What are we doing?"

He looked up at her, brow furrowed, clearly confused. She looked into his eyes, and the myriad of emotions she saw there startled her. They were sad, pleading, and something that looked like unwarranted raw desire. Slowly nodding with understanding, she captured his lips with hers and fell back onto the bed. He hovered over her and began to kiss her jaw as his hands quickly discarded her bra and underwear, leaving her vulnerable beneath him.

She had always known that Tony would be able to touch her, to use her unlike any man had ever done. This time was no exception. Despite their battered relationship, and under the circumstances with which they had met this particular time, she still trusted him more than she had trusted anyone. As he pressed her into the sheets, she wondered if this would change them. She hoped it wouldn't. Not only did she not want the awkwardness that would inevitably occur, she didn't want to give up their easy friendship. She relished the banter, the sexual tension—no longer unresolved.

Part of her still wondered if this was Tony feeling sorry for himself and trying, in some sick, twisted way, to punish himself and her for the death of Dana. She sincerely hoped that was not the case; against her better judgment she was becoming more emotionally and physically attached to him. But she knew that it would not be the first time he pulled a move like this. Remembering both Jenny and Jeanne and the deep, drunken depressions that came after those losses, she did not want to yet again be his escape from himself. She remembered the late night phone calls, the movie nights that never seemed to end. And the tears, oh the tears. They were silent and few, but when they came, her heart broke as severely as if they were her own.

But those times, she had stopped it after a few heated, tequila-soaked kisses. She never let it continue because she knew that their friendship might not withstand the pressure. If the tension was dissolved, what would the basis of their relationship fall on? But now…now after everything, she thought that this would be the least of their worries.

She hoped she was right.

He kissed her neck, her jaw, her cheek, her lips. Kissing him back, she carefully slid out from underneath him, pulling his arm around her side until her back was pressed against his chest. His hand smoothed over the front of her body, and for the first time she noticed the palm of his right hand was bruised, cut, and bloody. She grabbed it, and he sucked in a harsh breath. Sighing, she noticed his knuckles looked about the same.

Turning to face him, she asked, "Tony, what happened? Why?"

"I was drunk Ziva," he replied wearily. "I was pissed and I was drunk. And Gibbs let me work on that damn boat. So I slapped the wood because I was pissed and drunk, he hadn't sanded it yet. It did some damage trying to get out all the splinters. I came home, and I was still drunk. I punched something. Hard. More than once." She quietly clicked her tongue, slipping from his embrace and dragging the sheet with her. Going into his bathroom, she rummaged through the medicine cabinet until she found hydrogen peroxide and some bandages. Sitting down on his bed, she patted his leg until he reluctantly sat up and surrendered his hand to her.

She took care of his injuries with more gentleness and care than he expected, and when she finished he retook her hand in his. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"No need," she said, realizing that this time was no different than all the others. "I'll just go now."

He sat in silence as she gathered her clothes and went into the bathroom. Burying his face in his hands, he cursed himself for letting this happen. How could he have thought that this wouldn't change things? Paris had been excusable; they were in another world. But this? He knew he had wanted it, and he thought she had too.

His thoughts were interrupted by her exit from the bathroom, fully clothed. She smiled at him mysteriously and picked up her bag. As she walked out the door, he swore he heard her say, "C'est la vie, Tony."

* * *

**Note: come on, you didn't really think things would be all that easy, did you? Honestly, I had no intention of this being so sad, but that's just how it turned out. Next chapter will not be as swiftly written as this one, I'll probably have it up before the episode on Tuesday though. Maybe some happiness and understanding between these two.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Note: Soooo, I know I promised happiness and sunshine, but not yet! It's the Somalia chapter, folks, but probably not as you're expecting it. Time to buckle down.  
Also, just so you are all aware of my thoughts on this and aren't waiting for something that's not going to happen in any of my stuff, I don't actually think Tony and Ziva will ever really be a real relationship. I know, I know, calm down. Neither of them really strikes me as the 'relationship' type…they'll be committed to each other, that's for sure, but I don't believe they'll ever move in together or be "official" if you will. This mainly sounds like friends with benefits, and I don't want to call it that, that sounds too casual and trashy but in essence, that's what it is. An unspoken agreement of fidelity, if you will. Please put down your torches and pitchforks and try to spare my life.  
This chapter is going to bounce back and forth between Tony and Ziva's point of view…but it's all 3****rd****, so it won't be too confusing.  
Here we go:**

* * *

_The sun is going down now  
And it's been okay  
You tell me all the things you did  
While I was away  
And this worries me somewhat  
But you say you're fine_

He sat there in stunned silence. Although really, who was he kidding, he wasn't that stunned. When she showed up at his place, maybe a little stunned, but after their fight, after their…no, not stunned at all, actually. He only vaguely remembered calling her the night before, but that didn't stun him either.

What did stun him, however, was that just as he groaned and made to get out of bed, she waltzed back into the room and sat down in the chair facing his bed, back straight, chin up, arms and legs crossed. A look of defiance, of challenge.

"Do not give me that look," she said calmly, noting his baffled expression. "This business has gone on long enough, and things need to be said--"

"Really Ziva?" he interrupted, "I don't think we're much the talking type. More…physical if you ask me." Smirking, he got out of bed to retrieve a pair of boxers. "And if we are going to talk, you're going to need to get me really, really drunk first." Surely she wouldn't comply, he thought, and she would leave him to drown himself in a little more self-pity.

"Fine," she said brusquely, getting up and heading to his kitchen. What? Fine? No! He had carefully avoided being drunk in Ziva's presence since she had returned for the exact reason she was going to booze him up now. Not knowing what he would say to her, not knowing how honest he would be scared the hell out of him. She didn't know how terrible things had been without her, how the whole balance of the world was thrown off, the earth off its axis, flying recklessly through space. 'Couldn't live without you, I guess.' Damn, was that the truth. But without the excuse of unsafe drugs in a terrorist camp, he couldn't claim innocence and would be left vulnerable. And being left vulnerable to the mercy of someone like Ziva…well, he'd lived a good life.

She returned, carrying with her a nearly full bottle of bourbon. Violently pulling off the top, she put the bottle to her lips and tossed her head back, taking in a mouthful before offering the bottle to him, a silent challenge in her eyes.

He bowed his head with false gallantry and jerked the bottle out of her hands, taking a swig himself. Rummaging through his drawer for a pair of sweats, he felt her creep up behind him, her hot breath on the back of his neck. She was in his space; there was no doubt about that. It was her specialty—to get whatever she wanted from an uncomfortable game of chicken. And she never lost. He turned around slowly to face her.

"Why were you so…obsessed with that girl Tony?" she whispered, her mouth only inches from his own. She wasn't playing fair. Turning his head to take another swallow of alcohol from the bottle, he thought about his possible answers.

"I don't know if I'm particularly inclined to tell you," he said. "Maybe after a few more drinks." Shrugging, she backed away from him and settled herself down on the foot of his bed.

"All right then, Tony," she said demurely, "but when you admit things you do not want to, you can blame no one but yourself."

"Hey! You were the one who…who…_enticed_ me with bourbon. And you're the one who wants to talk so badly, anyways," he said. He took another long drink from the bottle. "This really isn't an even match."

"Is it not?" she asked innocently, walking forward yet again to take the bottle from him and have another sip.

He was confused, and he wasn't sure if the source was from the liquor or just from Ziva. Maybe it was a combination; he knew that the alcohol wasn't helping matters, but he also knew that Ziva could be damn manipulative.

"No, it's not actually. And besides, it's not like I'm the only one who has talking to do. You've needed to talk and explain for what, like nine months now? I think you get to go first." As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he knew he had messed up. The mention of Somalia quickly sobered whatever drunkenness was beginning to set in.

"What is there to say?" she said softly, refusing to make eye contact. "It happened. It is over. You think you want to know what happened, you tell yourself you need to know, but deep down, you want to forget about it as badly as I do."

"Don't you want to get it off your chest though? Wouldn't it feel good to trust someone again? I mean, I know what I did while you were gone. And you know what you did. I'm sure neither is the feel-good family hit of the season, but sometimes you've just got to let it out, Ziva."

"I know you read my report, Tony. I know you know what happened. It is not that I do not trust you, and I…appreciate your concern, but I do not think this conversation is necessary," she wearily argued, and had he pushed the subject further, she would have relented. They both knew this. He gave her one final, wistful glance and sighed before choking down another swallow from the bottle still in his hand.

"I swear, that was probably the hardest summer of my life. Gibbs gone, I could handle that. Jenny dead…harder, for sure, but still manageable. You being gone? Now that was rough. You being dead? I literally couldn't handle it." He raised the bottle to his lips again.

"Tony, you do not…" she started, looking at him painfully.

"No, no, I think this is something that I should probably say. You were right, I do pretty much know what happened, what those bastards did to you. Bastard number one, of course, being your rat of a father. God, Ziva, when Gibbs told us…" he trailed off, staring at the floor. As he began to move to take another drink, she gently took the bottle away from him. He offered no protest.

She had always been curious, albeit somewhat morbidly, as to how he had handled himself upon the news of her 'death,' but she didn't realize how deeply it had really affected him.

"I was a mess," he continued. "McGee probably saved my life from time to time. I got ridiculously drunk at every opportunity available. Remember how bad it was after Jenny? This was probably like a thousand times worse. Even Gibbs knew things were bad, he would send Tim after me when I left work early a few times. Because I would do that, you know. I would bullshit some paperwork and leave at like four on Fridays, go drink myself into a stupor. He'd show up out of nowhere and take me home. But that only happened a couple times I guess. Everything was weird for the first couple months. But when he said the Damocles went down…I can honestly say I barely remember a thing between then and seeing you in that camp. Everything…lost all meaning. Comprehension was nonexistent, there's a really good chance my brain didn't function at all."

"Tony, I am sorry. I am so terribly sorry. You should have forgotten about me, I did not deserve your sympathy, especially not after I treated you the way I did. I stopped trusting you," she said desperately, the guilt beginning to overwhelm her.

"Wait, sorry? You shouldn't feel sorry, that's the last thing you should feel. This whole ordeal is so far from your fault, Ziva, it's absolutely mine. I stopped trusting you long before you stopped trusting me. I brought this on myself. It was worse than Kate. Way worse. I had an active part in my own misery this time around, I could have prevented it. And I had only known Kate what, two years before she died? You were around for twice that long, and I feel like…I don't know." A look of mild confusion graced his face. "You were a part of me, I guess. Truth serum or not, I meant every word I said. Things were…unbearable. You were my partner; you were my best friend. And you were gone." He looked at her in desperation, as if to make sure that she were standing in the room, to guarantee that this wasn't a dream, that he wouldn't wake up and be haunted by her death.

She walked over to him and wrapped her arms around his bare chest, burying her face in his neck. "But I am here now," she said quietly, kissing his shoulder.

* * *

**Note: Hefty stuff, right? I know it's super short; this chapter was intended to go farther than this, get into more. But I really liked the way this ended so I'll run it over into the next chapter, which will be up in a couple days. I've had this one done for a while but my internet has been acting up and I haven't had a connection long enough to upload this. So sorry that it's not shown up until 2 days after I originally promised it.**

**Also, that episode Tuesday? RIDICULOUS. I am so so excited to see what they have in store for the last couple episodes of the season.**

**Another also, thank you so much for the lovely reviews I have gotten and the multitude of favorites and alerts that have been tagged on this.**


	4. Chapter 4

_Listen. Can you hear it?  
__Does it speak?  
__Will I feel it? Will it hurt?  
__Am I near it?  
__I don't know._

They stood there for some time, in silence, waiting on the other to speak. She thought about what he had said, the things for which he had taken responsibility. And as the words replayed, tumbling over and over again in her mind, understanding and meaning came to her. He honestly thought it was his fault? That he forced her to leave, to stay on that tarmac while the past four years of her life flew away?

She should have seen it coming. Having a personal mission to kill her brother, her own _brother_, she shouldn't have ever believed that Eli was ever doing anything to protect his family. Michael's appearance was still suspicious at best, even to her at first. Keeping it all a secret, knowing what was really going on…no, Tony was not at fault. And as terrible as it made her feel, Michael's death (at the hand of Tony no less) was probably for the better.

Finally pulling back from him, she studied his face for a moment before whispering, "No."

"No what?" he replied, his voice a blend of confused and hesitant.

"It is not your fault. You are not to blame, not at all, Tony," she said, her forehead crumpled over her eyes.

"Well, I…I killed him, Ziva. I shot him," he said, refusing to specifically identify 'him.' "You know that, you said you memorized the report. And yeah, y'know, I _was_ jealous of him. Really, really jealous actually. I know you know that, too. Just like I was jealous of Locke, and Sanders, and Werth…"

"Just like I was jealous of Jeanne, and Brenda, and Dana, and all your one night stands?" she countered quietly, not confrontationally. He sighed.

The sun, once so bright and hot coming through his window, had started to fade, but only just slightly.

"What happened to us?" he whispered wistfully. "When did we turn into these people? When did we get so out of sync?"

"When we realized the truth. When we realized that it was jealousy we were feeling and not something else more platonic like we kept telling ourselves," she responded. "But we still denied it and that made it worse."

"That's just it, though. I don't think I ever really understood it until you were gone. I guess I kind of knew, unconsciously, that we were fighting it, but until you left I could have fought forever. Which is ironic, if you think about it, since after I thought you died I kept fighting, just in a different way," he said, laughing softly.

"I do not know when I fully learned either. I do not think it was on the Damocles. But it might have been; after Saleem captured me I did not think about anything, let alone NCIS. I learned to block out questioning, to stop all relevant thoughts when being tortured. I know I said that I would never allow myself to be captured alive, but the human body has such…such an instinctual life-saving drive. I fought until they overwhelmed me; it did not take long, but at that point I knew that I would die. Even having my philosophy predetermined, desiring to be dead before I would allow myself to be at the mercy of others, I had a hard time grasping my own mortality. I guess it was because I had always seen myself as indestructible. I had always been in control of myself. After they captured me, they left me completely alone, no food, no water, for a few days. It was then that I thought about everything that had happened. That may have been when I realized. Realized that we were much more complex than I would ever have anticipated. And realized that everything was my fault." She stepped away from him, walking to the window. Leaning against the frame, she heard the bedsprings whine as he sat down. Whatever line they had been dancing around had surely been crossed at this point, as if it had not been already.

"So what now?" he asked, his torso falling back onto the bed, feet dangling on the floor.

"We stop fighting," she responded, shifting her weight so that she was sitting on the window pane. "We stop pretending."

He sat up again. "We've pretended for almost five years, Ziva. Will it be this easy? Half of our job is pretending."

"What are you saying? That you want us to run in circles around each other for five more years? That is unfair to both of us."

With that, she got up and walked towards him, standing between his legs as he continued to sit on the bed. He studied her face as she looked down at him, and his hands automatically made their way to her hips. She slowly leaned over him, her hair curtaining their faces together.

"I don't know," he whispered, barely audible, as her lips gently touched down onto his.

Before he could register the feeling, she had pulled back, her mouth mere centimeters away from his, and began running her hands up his still bare back and into his hair. She placed soft kisses on his jaw, and he stood up, holding her body flush against his. The sudden height difference, switching the control of the situation, caused her hands to drag down his neck, and he moaned lightly. Her hands slid down his back and across the waistband of his sweats teasingly. Unable to stand the torture any longer, he crashed his lips onto hers again.

They battled for dominance in a way that only they could. Neither of them had a single submissive bone in their body. Very rarely did one of them ever win over the other. They pushed and pushed each other to the brink, almost tipping over the edge, before they simultaneously backed off until the next round. Separating their mouths forcefully, he placed hot, wet kisses all down her neck as her fingers clenched painfully in his hair.

Something still didn't feel quite right, she noticed, as she saw his forehead wrinkle. She gently took a step back, and his eyes closed. Her hand smoothed across his face and the creases relaxed. She knew that it had been—and would be—difficult for things to get back to normal, and she wondered if this sudden physical relationship was not hurting it. Were they putting unnecessary pressure on themselves?

"You know," she commented, "we never did eat lunch." She wanted to change the subject, to ease the tension that had once suddenly built again.

"Ziva," he said curtly, "It's like, five thirty. Definitely not lunch time."

"Well I'm hungry," she said haughtily, untangling herself from him and all but strutting to his kitchen. His eyes followed her disbelievingly and slowly walked behind her.

Upon entering the kitchen, he saw her silhouette in front of his open refrigerator, the door supporting most of her weight as she kept it propped open. He never knew that anybody could make a refrigerator seem so…seductive. Almost unconsciously, he walked up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and settling his chin on her shoulder as they both viewed the minimal options. She exhaled gradually, contentedly, and her hands covered his on her stomach, the door gently landing on them.

"We're a mess, Ziva."

"You will be more of a mess if I do not eat soon," she answered mischievously, turning her face towards him. Her breath hitched as she realized the proximity of his face, and quickly separated herself to avoid any other distraction.

She darted to the pantry to grab a loaf of bread as he pulled out cold cuts and cheese from the refrigerator. They stood at the counter in silence, mechanically making their sandwiches. He stole her bread, shoving it into his mouth all at once. She looks at him in feign shock before lightly slapping his face and bursting into bubbling, happy laughter.

Instead of travelling the long ten feet to the table, he leaned against the cabinets and ate as she hopped up and sat on the countertop.

She brushed a stray crumb off the corner of his mouth and rested her fingers on his cheek. "I think we will be okay, Tony," she said.

"Y'know, I think we just might."

* * *

**Note: Another shorty. And to be honest, too fluffy at the end, but whatever. For the song lyrics, I had a hard time deciding what "it" was as it related to this story. That was probably half the battle in writing this chapter. The other half was having prom on Saturday and losing a whole day to that. "It" can be whatever you interpret it to be, but for me it's the change, the shift that they have when they get back on the same page.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Note: So so sorry that I've fallen off the grid here…school just finished up and I had a ton of last-minute things that needed to get done. The rest of the season was outstanding (and extremely confusing) and I don't think I'll be able to wait until September to see what happens! Enjoy!**

* * *

_I don't know how more people haven't got mental health problems, thinking is one of the most stressful things I've ever come across.  
And not being able to articulate what I want to say drive me crazy.  
I think I should read some more books, learn some new words.  
My sister used to read the dictionary, I'm going to start with that._

She watched him finish his sandwich, then turn to the refrigerator for a drink. As she continued to follow his movements with her unwavering gaze, she thought about how often she had watched him over the years. And then wondered how much of it was actually watching and not just _seeing_. There was, in fact, a difference, she realized. Did she take an active participation, a true interest in his actions, or did she just view what he did because it was available? She tried to think back. Unsatisfied with her lack of memory on the subject, she huffed and frowned.

Peeking from around the refrigerator, he looked at her bewilderedly. "What?" he said, closing the door and leaning against the counter yet again.

"I'm trying to think," she replied, frustrated. How could she not remember if she _watched_ Tony or if she just _saw_ him? It was quickly becoming a matter of great importance, and she did not appreciate his condescending chuckle.

"Come on, Ziva, what do you have on your mind that's making you so upset?"

She glared at him and slid from the countertop, walking into his bedroom. He buried his face in his hands and groaned before following her. As he entered the room, he found her laying stretched out in the middle of his bed, eyes shut tight. Trying to determine what could have set her off, to make her content disposition change this significantly so rapidly, he slumped in his chair, hand over his eyes. They remained there for some time before she leaned up on her elbows and spoke.

"Tony, when we are at work, do you see me or do you watch me?"

He peeked at her from between his fingers. "What? What are you talking about?"

"I am being serious. Do you see me or do you watch me?" Her impatience was growing swiftly with every second he did not provide a sufficient response.

"Well, I…there's a difference?" he said, clearly confused. "I…I really have no idea what you mean."

She rolled her eyes and sat up completely. "Yes, there is a difference. I mean, you could just _see_ me, but you might not always _watch_ me. Does that make sense?"

He paused. "No."

"Then I cannot possibly explain it to you. I do not know how to say it any differently. Seeing and watching," she said, weighing each invisible word in her hands, "are not the same. Watching is more…active. And seeing is just seeing." She huffed again, throwing herself back onto the bed. "This is driving me insane."

Silence enveloped the room as they lost themselves in their own thoughts. She felt the bed sink as he moved from the chair to sit next to her.

"I've always seen you," he whispered. "And I've always watched you. Maybe a little less watching when I was with Jeanne, to be honest, but even with all those other women, I think I've known it's always been you."

She didn't respond and he didn't expect her to. She slid over to make room and he lay down next to her on the bed. Neither of them spoke, and she thought about their relationship for what felt like the thousandth time that day. They would always be friends, she felt; it was just a matter of in what context. Both of them were changed by the events of the past year, for better and for worse.

Rolling towards him, she placed a hand on his cheek, causing him to face her as well. She simply looked at him, studied his face, only inches from her own, until he cracked a smile and let out a breathy laugh that she felt more than heard. Smiling back, she pressed her lips against his briefly before pulling away, resuming her position on the bed next to him. She heard him sigh, and he wedged his arm underneath her until it was wrapped around her waist.

"When is your exam?" he said, finally breaking the silence. "Your citizenship exam, I mean."

"In a few weeks," she responded, disappointed that the conversation had taken on such a business-like tone. "I do not recall the exact date."

"Well, you know, I hear you should study for those kinds of things, Ziva, not waste a whole day lying around, talking about nothing," he joked.

"You, of all people, know that I study," she said in feigned anger, sitting up and poking him in the chest. "And I do not think that we are talking about nothing," she added quietly.

"Maybe not, but how long have you been over here? Three hours? That's three hours of something productive you could be doing. Like reading the dictionary, learning your idioms properly," he continued a teasing glint in his eye.

"I highly doubt that the _dictionary_ would have idioms in it, Tony," she said, laughing.

He got up and walked into his living room swiftly, coming back with a large tome. She wondered if it was actually a dictionary; there was no jacket and his large hand was covering the spine. It was quite likely that the book was about something completely unrelated and purely for show, and she was about to call him on it until he started talking.

"All right, Zee-vah, a quiz for you. Idiom number one: 'all bark and no…?'" he trailed off, looking at her inquisitively, expecting her to finish the phrase.

"That one is easy. Bite," she said menacingly, snapping her teeth together at him.

"Very good," he said with fake admiration. "I think you just might pass. Oh, here's a good one, it's practically describing you. Idiom number two: 'a loose…?'"

"DiNozzo! What are you calling me?" she exclaimed. "I am certainly not some…some…harlot!" She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, mouth hanging open slightly.

His eyes widened, and he mentally backtracked and fast-forwarded, trying to dig himself out of the hole in which he had just been thrown.

"Shit, no, Ziva, that's not what I meant, no, not at all! Cannon, a loose cannon…" he stammered, closing the book. She got up stiffly—threateningly—and walked toward him.

Pressing her body nearly flush against his, their faces only inches apart, she narrowed her eyes and whispered, "I know. It is a loose cannon. I just like to mess with you sometimes." She pinched his side and backed away.

"You really shouldn't do that, you know. One day, you're just going to be 'messing' with me and I'm going to have a heart attack. And I'm not sure I trust you to give me CPR, your chest compressions might smash my sternum," he muttered quickly, letting out a breath he hadn't been completely sure he was holding.

She laughed. "What book did you have anyways? I know that idioms are not in the dictionary."

"Is it so hard to believe that I would have a useful book in my house? For your information, Ms. David, this is, in fact, a dictionary," he responded, revealing the spine to her. "I haven't used it in probably fifteen years, but it exists."

"You should look at it sometime," she said, "increase your knowledge. Tali would read the dictionary almost every day. She had the widest vocabulary of anyone I knew at her age." She smiled wistfully, caught up in memories.

He watched her carefully. Should he ask about her sister? Ziva had never really willingly offered any specific information about her; all he knew was that she had died in a suicide bombing years ago. He had always assumed that the two were close, but was never sure. To bring it up could upset her and ruin the lighthearted mood that had come over them. Then on the other hand, to leave it alone could prove his fear of more meaningful conversation and a deeper relationship with her. He was most definitely caught between a rock and a hard place. Would she know that idiom?

"You don't talk about her much," he said cautiously, gauging her reaction. She looked at him, relaxed, reassuring him that he had not made a mistake.

"There is not a lot to say. She was my sister and my best friend. I did not get to see her much in the time before she was killed; I had already joined Mossad. That is my one biggest regret. Having a…father like we did, feminism was not a priority. But part of me is almost glad that she was never in Mossad, whether by her own choice or from pressure from me or Eli or anyone else. She was able to maintain what little innocence the daughter of the Director of Mossad could have. I miss her, but I know that I would not have chosen this life for her." She sighed and closed her eyes.

He had two possible choices. One was to make a mild joke, to ask how Ziva wouldn't have wanted her sister to meet an equally charming NCIS agent such as himself. The other was to try and offer empathy, despite his lack of siblings and lack of understanding.

He went with a combo.

Walking over to her, he enveloped her in a hug, whispering, "Yeah, but if _you_ hadn't chosen this life, then you would have never met me."

He felt her smile against his neck. Point, DiNozzo. He'd have to remember the one-two punch of sensitive yet teasing, blithe. She kissed him softly on the lips and ran her fingers through his hair.

Pulling back and staring into his eyes, she said, "Hmm. I guess that is true. And I also would have never met McGee, which is much more significant."

As he yanked himself away from her, she laughed happily. He shoved her lightly and smirked. She turned from him and began to walk away when he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back. His eyes smoldered as they looked into hers, and he began to kiss down her jaw and neck.

"McGee may be significant," he said as her fingertips pressed into his shoulder blades, "but I bet you'd never let him do this."

She gasped as he ran his tongue over her collarbone. "So now you are trying to use sex as a strategy?" she breathed into his hair, "That is unfair."

"Mmm, but you tried it earlier. It's my turn. And you can't say that it hasn't worked magnificently."

She pushed him off of her, an incredulous look on her face. His gaze, seductive and somewhat challenging, was unwavering. Licking her lips, she pulled his mouth down onto hers and they moved together towards the bed.

* * *

**Note: Eh, not too fond with the ending (or this whole chapter as a matter of fact), but it's not like I can write smut anyways so there's not a whole lot left to say. I think you get the idea. I'm getting somewhat frustrated/impatient/bored with this story, but I promised myself that I would see it out to the end, so no fear! Also, the rest of this will be pretty much AU, the rest of the season will not be taken into consideration at all, since this story takes place in the course of one day. If I have time (which I don't) then I might work on some post-Rule 51 stuff, but this is what I'm going to devote time to now. As always, thank you for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

_I'd like to travel; I want to see India and the pyramids, a whale, and that race with all the bicycles in France.  
I'm not sure about rivers, they scare me, but I love swimming  
I'm good at it and when I swim, I count the laps and this helps me relax._

She woke up with a start and looked at the alarm clock, blinking her eyes to adjust to the glaring red numbers. Red numbers? Her numbers were blue. After a brief flash of mild panic, she remembered that she was not at home. The warm body pressed against her and the heavy arm draped across her waist were proof of that. Once her filmy vision had settled, she took note of the time. 9:30 pm. How unfortunate. It was the perfect time and amount of sleep that she would not be able to go to bed for easily the rest of the night. Sighing quietly, as to not wake Tony, she turned around to face him.

His arm twitched slightly as she shifted, and she reflexively froze. When she was sure he was not going to awaken, she observed him silently as she had done dozens of men before. Only this time she was fairly certain that their night together would not end in his death or any divulgence of international secrets. Of course, he had yet to wake up, and it was no secret that their volatile personalities could be sparked into fury in mere seconds.

But she didn't think it would happen. Not this time, anyway.

They had reached a major turning point, she felt. Sure, the afternoon in the bathroom had been step one. Paris had been an unexpected (although maybe not _too_ unexpected) steps two, three, and four. Damon resurfacing and the introduction of Dana had been two giant leaps backward, and they were almost at square one all over again. Tonight, though…tonight had sealed some cracks in the foundation. An unspoken promise had developed. Or at least that's what she had assumed. She really should know better, she thought. With Tony's self-attributed deep seeded commitment issues and her own silent insecurity, nothing was certain.

The arm which was not still fastened around her was cushioning his forehead as he slept. His hair was tousled and stood in every direction, somewhat adorably she noted, almost disgusted with her blatant sentimentality and romanticism. She noticed his eyes darting around behind his closed eyelids and wondered what he was dreaming about. She hoped it was pleasant; she had had far too many nightmares and did not want that terror and burden to be on him too. His mouth, which was slightly open, his breath slow and heavy, snapped shut, and his teeth clenched together. He frowned lightly and his forehead creased, rolling off his arm.

So it would be a nightmare, then.

She rotated a little more, loosening his embrace, and sat up, pulling his sheet with her to retain some modesty. Her fingertips gently grazed his forehead and traveled to his cheek where she rested her palm. "Tony," she whispered, putting only small bits of pressure onto his face. There was no sign of him waking up. She tried to think—were you not supposed to wake up someone who was dreaming? Or was it only if they were sleepwalking?

All of a sudden, his eyes flew open, he was gasping for breath, and his hand grabbed her wrist almost painfully before he registered her presence.

"Tony," she said quietly, calmly, despite his frazzled appearance, "it is okay. Shhh, it is just me."

"Damn," he muttered, sitting up. He pulled his legs up nearly to his chest, rested his forearms on his knees, and buried his face. "Sorry. It was just a dream."

"You do not have to apologize," she replied, somewhat amused. "I know all about dreams. And nightmares. You can talk about it if you want."

He turned his head to face her. "Are you afraid of anything?"

Her face wrinkled in confusion. She did not expect to be asked a question in response to her offer, let alone a personal question. He continued to look at her expectantly, clearly waiting for an answer. How could she react to this? Honesty was obvious, that much was certain. But should she really tell him everything she feared? She knew he deserved as much, but she was afraid that he would recoil at her lack of…ninja-ness, so to speak. He had always built her up in his mind as a fearless, intense killer, she thought. Part of her knew it was stupid to hold back from him, but her newly found anxious-Ziva personality did not want to ruin his idea of her. She…enjoyed being the hard, brave woman that he thought she was.

"Well," she started slowly, trying to plan her answer before she gave it. "I am actually afraid of several things." She knew it would not be sufficient, that he would probe until he found specifics, but she paused, hoping he would change the topic or let it be.

He leaned towards her, his eyes asking the question she dreaded.

She sighed. "All right, Tony. What am I afraid of? Fire scares me. Dogs are not my favorite animals, to say the least. Masks make me uncomfortable, I do not like not knowing who is behind it. Rivers…rivers worry me. They can sweep everything away."

"Okay, that's not exactly what I was looking for. I mean, I'm afraid of spiders and bombs and your driving, but I'm also afraid of what I like to call the three deadly C's: change, choice, and commitment. What are you _really_ afraid of?"

Her eyes closed briefly. Of course this was what he was digging for, she knew that. She knew he knew that, too. Her careful avoidance was detected and destroyed, and any attempt to wiggle her way out of this conversation was impossible. The determined look in his eyes frustrated her. She did not want to have this talk, not now, not when things had been going so well.

Taking a deep breath, she said, "I see. I am afraid of showing my emotions. I am afraid of failure. I _was_ afraid of losing my family, more than anything, but that obviously does not matter anymore since they are all either dead or should be." Anger seeped into her voice at the subtle mention of her father, and he wondered if this was somewhere he was willing to tread. Asking about her sister was one thing, because fond memories accompanied that. But there was nothing but hatred and disgust as she allowed him to venture into her personal thoughts, and he figured she was reprimanding herself for being so weak.

"Well yeah, neither of our families are exactly fantastic, Ziva," he said in an attempt to extract her from her resentment, sorry that he had brought up this whole ordeal to begin with. "My mom died when I was a kid, and at this point, I'd say you know my dad about as well as I do."

"It is not the same. Your father was not willing to sacrifice you. He did not send you on a practical suicide mission; he did not leave you to die. He did not order you to kill your own brother," she said venomously, not realizing her words until they were spoken. Only two people knew about the real events of that night, and she had just made it three. What rule was that? Four? Now the secret was out.

He looked at her, stunned. Neither of them knew how to react so it became a brief, unsaid staring contest. After a few moments he leaned over and pulled her into his arms. She tensed momentarily before relaxing in his embrace, sighing. The silence held until he knew it had to be broken.

"So what is this about rivers? I thought you liked to swim."

She breathed a laugh into his chest, thankful for the new subject. "Yes, I like to swim, but rivers are too powerful. They are supposedly so symbolic, always changing, never the same, but that makes them frightening. There is no consistency, nothing reliable, always unpredictable. I have never been drawn to the unpredictable; it made up too much of my life for me to want it in my spare time. I told you before, with Agent Dunham—I am done wandering. I am here for good. Rivers are never anywhere for good."

"That was so…deep," he said, impressed. She put more thought into her fears than he probably ever had. Hers had a reason; his were irrational. Except for her driving; he would always be a little afraid of that.

"Yes, well, I have had a lot of time to think."

"In Somalia?" he asked, and mentally chastised himself for bringing it up when they were still balancing on uneven ground.

"Somalia, yes. But also during hours of stakeouts, undercover ops, being at home when I was not working. You seem to think that Mossad was all killing, all the time. We had down time, and for the most part, I spent it alone. You did not make many friends when you were a spy; relationships were unwanted baggage. They were potential threats. I had a lot of time to think."

"But now that you're here, you can make friends. You can have relationships. And you know I was joking right? About the not-having-friends thing, when we watched that movie after work? I know you have friends."

She laughed and the vibrations rattled his chest, his whole body. "Yes, I know. And I was joking too, about you not really being my friend. But I think that is obvious after our…time spent together today."

He grinned. "Yeah, I'd say we're pretty good friends. Really good friends, actually."

She untangled herself from him and stretched out, pulling him down with her. They stayed there together, laying side by side, his arm once again slung over her waist and her hand resting on his chest.

"I would have to agree."

* * *

**Note: To be honest, I had no idea what was going on with this chapter until I wrote it so forgive me if it jumps around and doesn't flow well. The next couple chapters will probably be written in the same fashion, but I have big plans for the last one so it'll suck less. As always, thank you for reading and any reviews are delightful.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Note: long time no see, folks! And unfortunately, it will probably be a while again before I update. Summer activities are in full swing, as is preparation for next year. The lyrics are here for show, skip them and read the actual stuff, they're totally unrelated haha.**

* * *

_When I was younger I saw a house burn down, and I walked past it for the next six years.  
__Derelict, black, chalky, and dangerous; I wondered if squatters lived there.  
__I'm still not sure but I know there were never any parties 'cause it was a shithole.  
__After a while the council got around to tidying up the town. They decided it was an eyesore so they tore it down.  
__Behind the house was a wall with a few bits of crappy graffiti and the word 'cunt' written in giant letters, and now I walk past that._

"You really are afraid of my driving, Tony?" she said, hardly daring to turn her head to look at him for fear of bursting into laughter, breaking her miffed façade.

He stiffened beside her, not knowing how to approach the situation. Surely she knew he was kidding. However, as he warily glanced at her out of his peripheral vision, noting her narrowed eyes and pursed lips, he wasn't convinced. How many times had she backed him into a corner like this? Hell, how many times had she done it today alone? The girl was crazy, that much was certain.

"Well yeah, Ziva, I'm gonna have to say that you drive like a maniac. I thought we'd been over this before," he responded, praying to every deity he could think of that her mood was pleased enough that she wouldn't freak out and castrate him…or worse, leave.

Her sharp bark of laughter echoed through the room as she leaned over and playfully slapped his stomach. He winced exaggeratedly, not expecting such a mild reaction. That is, if he could call the red mark and potential bruise 'mild.' But compared to what he imagined as the gruesome, horrifying damage which she was capable of, slight discomfort was a reasonable affliction.

"When have you ever been truly in danger when I drive?"

"I don't know, how about that time we were following the Venezuelan protocol officer and you bumper tapped his official government car? Didn't feel so safe then. Or those other seven thousand times when you drove like twice the speed limit."

"Okay. Hitting the car was perhaps not the…_best_ idea, but it would have been perfectly acceptable had he actually been in the car. And you rode in the car with Gibbs for several years before you ever rode with me, so I do not understand why you are so upset at my driving. Gibbs has no problem with my driving," she said, propping herself up on one elbow. She could not tell if they were still joking around or if his complaints were serious. Their banter had unfortunately taken a similar turn in the few weeks immediately following their return from Somalia, always afraid to be the one to push a little bit farther, always awkward around each other. Hopefully this conversation would not fall to a similar demise.

"I never said Gibbs's driving didn't scare the hell out of me, because it does. And if Ducky's stories are truth—and I'm sure they are—I don't believe I'm going to want to get in the car with Palmer behind the wheel either. At least not if I want to stay not lost," he replied, straying the topic ever so slightly as to hopefully move on from this subject.

"You know, you never took me up on piano lessons," she said, apparently attuned to his change. "I was being serious. Although I do not know how I would have taught you, or how I would now, seeing as neither of us has a piano."

"I don't need to be re-taught. Maybe just tinker around for a little bit, get myself used to it again. Like riding a bike, right? You never really forget." He momentarily thought of playing the piano briefly at Dana's house before Ziva had arrived. And just like she interrupted his thoughts then, she did again.

"I am familiar with that idiom, no need to explain it. And yes, I understand. But you can always use the practice."

"Well as soon as either of us has the funds to buy a piano then we can have this discussion again. I know I don't have that kind of expendable money in my accounts," he concluded, not realizing his words until it was too late. Ziva still probably thought he had thousands saved away for his cruise, which definitely constituted as 'expendable money.' He didn't know how to explain to her how the cruise had happened weeks ago and he stayed in DC, having given the money to his father.

The look she gave him asked the question, much as he expected, before she opened her mouth. "I thought you said you were going on a cruise? Did you finally realize that you are too old for that kind of behavior?" she teased, her eyes sparkling. She saw his stony expression and concern replaced the mirth. "What happened, Tony?"

"My father happened," he spat, teeth clenched. "Because guess who is in debt up to his eyeballs? Guess who needed a personal bailout from his only son? Yep, dear old dad. Had to pay for his room at the Adam's House when I realized…well, when McGee found out that he was completely broke and couldn't afford it."

"I suppose that is why he kept his name on the account as a trustee, in case he needed to ever tap into the money. Did it really take all of that money to pay off his bill?" she asked softly. He had draped an arm across his face and his eyes were pressed into the crook of his elbow. She saw his jaw flex as he repeatedly grit his teeth, his temper ready to boil over.

"I have about three hundred bucks left in that account. His suite was enormous and he got room service for every other meal; I'm surprised it didn't cost me more. He's been sneaking his way out of crap like this for years, and I honestly have no idea how he's done it," he continued sourly.

She ran her fingers through his hair and sighed. "I am sorry, Tony. You deserve better from him."

"He's been a ghost in my life for the past twenty five, thirty years. It's not really surprising."

"Yes, but you _have_ talked to him, have you not? He told me that you mentioned me at some point, so that tells me you have been in contact at least in the past four years," she said, turning her eyes towards him and giving him a knowing look.

"You've been around me too long. I've made you too good of an investigator," he told her, only half mocking. "He called me a few years ago, before all the La Grenouille fiasco, and then I talked to him again before I went afloat. They weren't meaningful conversations. It was like I had run into an old college buddy and was just giving him a brief recap of my life. So naturally you came up. I hope you weren't excited to hear some juicy father-son gossip, because it didn't happen. Never has and probably never will."

He groaned, thinking of the conversations. She didn't know the real extent of what he had told his father, and he had no intention of telling her. She didn't know that for once he had dominated the exchange over his father, telling him stories about this new, exotic, dangerous officer. She didn't know that he called when the team was split up, yelling, furious that Vance would dare to separate them. His father had hardly cared, pulling some 'son, it'll be okay,' generic response. The calls had been so one-sided and pointless that he hadn't bothered to get in touch again and was relatively shocked that his father remembered any information relayed during them. And he was equally surprised that he hadn't told Ziva the more interesting parts of what he knew.

"Well you do not need that extra stress in your life. You were a mess when he was here, and would have been even if the case had not involved him. He…worries you unnecessarily, Tony, that much was obvious. Although I do not know why you feel the need to prove yourself to him," she said, her eyes squinting slightly as she observed him.

"He's my dad, Ziva. As much as I've tried, I can't ignore him. But I can only handle him, if I have to, in small doses. Sure, it'd be nice to never have to deal with him, and I've done a damn good job up until now of keeping him out of my life. It's not realistic though."

"I know. Just like I know that I will have to answer for abandoning my father sooner or later. Promise me that you will not bring it on yourself, though. If it has to happen, you do not have to be the one to start it." Her hand, once resting atop his head, slid down to his cheek and turned his face to hers. His eyes still held a muted anger, but it dissolved into sadness as she refused to break his gaze.

"It's times like that that make me glad I never had kids. I would hate for them to have to deal with him as a grandfather, and I would hate it if I ever turned out to be remotely like him. I don't know how a kid is supposed to be raised. And besides, they hate me. You remember that one boy, whose dad was kidnapped?" She nodded. "Yeah, you remember, the kid _hated_ me."

"You would learn. Your own children would not hate you. But I understand. I had never really given having children a thought until Gibbs brought it up once. It haunted me that I had never given it any consideration, but I guess it did not make a difference. There is no such thing as maternity leave in Mossad. I would have been permanently removed. After he asked me though, I wondered if it was something I would even want. And I do not think it is. Not now. Perhaps if I had left Israel sooner—younger—then I would feel differently but I cannot envision myself as a mother." She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. "I am sure that my father would want me to have children, to continue the family line, but I do not think he deserves that from me after killing his only other option."

He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close to him. In the terrible father department, Ziva won hands down. Saddened by her confession, he wondered what pressures would have been placed on her had she remained in Israel. Would they force her to eventually wed and reproduce? He didn't think it would be arranged, she would never stand for that, but would the glances and comments and insinuations be enough for her to settle down?

"Well for what it's worth, I think you would be a fantastic mother," he whispered into her hair. She pulled back slightly and looked at him incredulously.

"I do not. There are far too many weapons in my apartment."

* * *

**Note: Hooray, another chapter done! And as last time, I had no intentions of this going where it did. What's up, family issues? (Again- I know I mentioned them briefly several times before this) Where did this children talk come from? Beats me. Also, as I was writing this I noticed how little plot there actually was. But I think that's okay, this story is more supposed to be about their thoughts and conversations and getting back onto solid ground. I'll write more stuff later that actually has things happen and isn't 95% dialogue. As always, hoped you enjoyed this and I would love for you to review! There are only going to be probably 2, maybe 3, chapters left of this so we're on the home stretch!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Note: So I was trying to come up with some sort of excuse as to why I have been so blatantly absent and there really is none, except I had no idea what I was going to write. It's been a long month! Things are getting happy now for them, I'm tired of writing angst. And for that, go ahead and ignore the lyrics again. Enjoy.**

* * *

_I like going to the park. I like walking through it.  
__I like taking my dogs there, and friends, and I like being alone.  
__I like being able to shout, but I wish I could be quiet.  
__When I'm quiet people just think I'm sad, and usually I am._

An unexpected crack of thunder interrupted Tony's amused expression and silenced his laugh which had only just begun to bubble from between his lips. His appearance quickly switched to one of shock and the laughter seemed to jump into Ziva's mouth as she observed the change.

"Was it supposed to storm? I don't remember hearing anything about it," he said as a flash of lightning illuminated the room.

"Then you obviously do not pay close enough attention," she laughed. "There was a small chance of an…" she snapped her fingers in concentration, "insulated thunderstorm."

"The term is isolated," he replied, raising an eyebrow and getting out of bed. She huffed and sat up.

"Well I was close," she said confidently, pulling the sheet around her body. He turned around to face her, giving her a pointed look. "I was! They sound very similar. Where are you going?"

Bending down to retrieve his boxers from where they had curiously disappeared under the bed, he replied, "To the window. I want to see if it's actually raining and not just phantom thunder and lightning."

She watched his silhouette lean against the windowpane gently, only to jump back again as he was startled by another loud boom. Her laughter echoed through the room, and though his face was still turned outside, she could almost see his angry pout, which only expanded her mirth.

When she was lying back on the bed, completely out of breath from laughing so hard for so long, he spun toward her slowly, walking in her direction, an odd look on his face.

"What?" she asked, a residual giggle spilling out. "It was funny! I have never seen you jump so high, and your face looked ridiculous."

"First of all," he responded, pointing at her, "you did not see my face, I was still looking outside, so you could not have possibly known if it looked ridiculous. Second of all, I was _going_ to tell you that it was, in fact, raining outside, and you left your windows down, but since you _laughed_ at me for so damn long, I don't know if I will."

In spite of herself, and to his chagrin, she began to laugh again until his words registered. It was Tony's turn to smirk when her expression phased into horror and she flew out of the bed, rushing to gather her clothes and get dressed.

"I cannot believe you did not tell me! Tony! My car is probably soaked!" she shouted, her movement frenzied. Bits and pieces of Hebrew phrases were intermixed with her rant, and he could only imagine what curses she was raining—no pun intended, he laughed to himself—down upon him. "Where is my other shoe?"

"Ziva," he said seriously, "it's pouring. You probably don't want to get your shoes that wet, and you really don't have the time to worry about it now." She all but screeched with fury and frustration in his general direction before sprinting off, slamming his front door behind her.

Not a minute later, he watched with glee as she raced out of his building and towards her car. Judging by the torrent falling from the sky, she would be drenched in seconds. He pulled the curtains shut just before she reached her car and sat down on the foot of his bed, waiting patiently for her return. Just thinking about her storming back into his apartment, wreaking more havoc than Mother Nature was outside, brought a satisfied smile to his face.

Before he had time to finish his daydream, however, she burst through his door, throwing her car keys on his coffee table forcefully, absolutely sopping wet. She stomped into his room where he waited with an innocent expression and a questioning look on his face.

"My windows," she spat through clenched teeth, "were not open, Tony. But you knew that, did you not? You just wanted me to get wet." By then, she had walked right into his personal space as he stood up in vain to decrease his vulnerability. Maybe, he thought, this was not the best idea after all.

By the time he had even begun to formulate any sort of response, she had knocked him off his feet and pinned him, her knees on either side of him and her hands pressing his shoulders into the floor. She watched several levels of fear flash through his eyes before his infamous manipulative, sly grin appeared on his face. The grin that typically excused him from any and all mischievous behavior. But, knowing his tricks, she was not amused.

"If you were not so _heavy_," she hissed, poking a finger into his chest, "I would pick you up and carry you outside. And leave you there!" Instead, she released her hold on his shoulders, sitting back onto his stomach. Gathering her mass of unruly, wet curls in both hands, she leaned over him and squeezed the water onto his surprised face.

"Hey! _Hey!_ This is unnecessary," he sputtered. Seeing her violent glare, he continued, "I mean, yeah, I shouldn't have sent you out there but I didn't purposely try and _drown_ you!"

She smirked and, still perched above him, reached down to take off her shirt. Purposely drowning him may not have been her goal, but she would surely torment him. His face twisted in confusion as she finished pulling it over her head.

"I…what? What is happening?" he said, trying to sit up. "I don't know what game you're trying to play here, but I'm going to go ahead and say you're winning."

Offering no response, she held the shirt over his head and wrung it out over him, soaking his head once more.

"Fine. Deserved. Just let me up now, please? I'm wet too, you know, I need to dry off."

She smiled innocently, once again employing silence. However, she made no move to stand up. He attempted to sit up himself, to physically push her off, but she grabbed his shoulders once again and had him pinned more easily than he would ever have admitted. She leaned towards his face again, making him visibly wince, waiting for more water to rain down. But instead of a cold, wet shower, he was greeted with soft, warm breath only inches from his own mouth.

Her hands slid down slightly to his chest and the breath turned into laughter—again—as she felt his pulse accelerate. He was deathly still as her lips grew ever closer to his own, and almost sighed with relief when they barely grazed together.

And then she got up and sauntered towards his bathroom.

"You are such a damn _tease_, David!" he yelled after her. His head fell back onto the floor, and he rubbed his hair furiously in an attempt to dry it off. Getting up, he walked into his living room and switched on the television. The news reported flash flood warnings and standing water across the city, and he groaned, thinking of the terrible commute on Monday. "I hope to God this all clears up. I really do hate rain in D.C."

"I know," she responded, coming out of the bathroom, much drier than before. "But I hope you remember last time it rained when you were running late. Do not text me to run your _errands_ for you again, Tony. Do you have anything I can wear? My clothes are wet, as I am sure you noticed."

"Sure, I noticed. And sure again, I've got some t-shirts in my drawers somewhere, poke around until you find something."

She returned in one of his undershirts and a pair of basketball shorts, which, although they were far too small on him and he briefly wondered from what depths of his drawers she had retrieved them, still swallowed her frame.

They sat together in a peaceful stillness for some time, watching the news. He would occasionally change stations as he grew impatient with commercials, and she would roll her eyes. He finally settled on a special showing of _Casablanca_ which was nearly over.

"Do you remember that summer when Gibbs was gone?" she asked quietly, leaning against his side. He hummed his affirmation and she continued. "When we would get together sometimes, stay up and talk and drink and sometimes watch movies? Did I ever tell you that my father was having us watched? When I went to the embassy about that explosion in Georgetown they showed me the pictures. That is half of the reason I called Gibbs. I knew you would have been able to handle the situation and I trusted you, but I knew that we would not be able to continue our meetings, not being scrutinized like that. And I knew you would not question it when they stopped if Gibbs was back."

He turned his head and looked at her. "I always figured there was some reason. I mean, both for those nights stopping and for you calling Gibbs before you came to me. It never really made a lot of sense, but I guess it does now. Not that it matters so much anymore. Can you believe that that was like three and a half years ago?"

"You are right—it does not matter, much more important things have happened since then. But I felt like you should know anyways. I can at least explain that part of my behavior, not all of it is so justifiable. And yes, it has been a long time. We are getting old," she replied, raising an eyebrow and smiling playfully.

"We have come a long way since then," he told her, leaning down to press his lips against hers chastely, pulling away before either of them was tempted. "But as for getting old, I think you need to learn to speak for yourself."

She laughed again for the hundredth time that night and pulled her legs up to her chest, resting her head against his shoulder, as the two of them finished the movie in silence.

* * *

**Note: Hooray! And I have made the final decision that there will be two more chapters after this one. Hopefully they'll both have a happy-ish trend to them, because I think that after the season(s) Tony and Ziva have had and all the crappy angst in this, the two of them deserve it.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Note: Hey. Real excuse this time: unexpectedly got my wisdom teeth out and the kind of creative writing I was doing while drugged up was not really fitting with this, to say the least. And so the penultimate chapter begins!**

* * *

_Sometimes when I'm at a really noisy train station,  
One of the ones with the big, fat trains like Kings Cross,  
I feel like putting down my bags and shouting things out, because I've got something to say._

As the final credits rolled, he was vaguely aware that he had stretched out to lay his head on the arm of the sofa while Ziva had managed to curl herself into an impossibly small ball with the majority of her body in his lap. Her face was hidden, but the gentle snore that escaped her lips caused him to chuckle, which in turn shook her body and effectively woke her up. She moaned and rubbed her face, stretching off of him and leaning onto the other half of the couch. The action made her borrowed shirt ride up tantalizingly, and he had to bite his lip and turn away to keep his self control intact. Who knew that his ratty old undershirt could be so…sexy? It must be a context thing, he decided.

"So let me get this straight," he said, daring to look at her drowsy, yet content, face. "You come to my house, eat my food, wear my clothes, and then don't have the respect to stay awake for one of the greatest works of cinema of all time?"

"Tony," she said, yawning, "it is after midnight. And I have seen this movie before; you have forced it upon me more than once. Every other thing that came out of your mouth when we were in Paris was related to it. I will survive."

"Not an excuse. Of all the movies ever made, this is the one you can't watch enough. At least it's not the damn _Sound of Music_," he replied, narrowing his eyes at her.

"That is as much of a classic as _Casablanca_," she said, pointing at him. "It's just different. Like apples and oranges, yes?"

"Sure, if you're in Kindermusik or a nursing home. Self-respecting adults watch _real_ movies, Ziva. Not forty-year-old _musicals_."

She huffed. "I think it is a perfectly fine movie. And _Casablanca_ has got to be at least twenty years older, so your last point is irrelevant."

At that, she got up and walked into his kitchen, and, to his great dismay, straightening her clothes. He wondered when they had reached this level of comfort with each other and what exactly it had taken for them to get there. Well, he knew most of it, he thought with a self-satisfied smirk. In all honesty though, the roller coasters of the past four years, past nine months, past _day_, were more than enough reasonable doubt to contemplate the validity and endurance of whatever…_this_ was. But for now he was content to watch her hips sway back and forth as she searched his cabinets for some mysterious item.

"Whatever. What are you looking for?"

"A glass," she said, not stopping her search. "I am thirsty, but apparently you never drink anything that is not in a bottle because I cannot find any. It really is a miracle that you have survived this long." She bent over, checking a drawer near the floor, before turning around to him with her arms crossed. Apparently her form of asking for help.

"So let me get this straight. An international spy and assassin, who could probably kill me with a sheet of paper and probably pick the lock on the White House, can't find a glass and needs help? And I thought your investigative skills were becoming rather advanced, Ziva. I can't say I'm not disappointed." Her eyes shot daggers towards him and she shifted her weight forward so he felt threatened enough to tell her. "Second cabinet from the fridge. Jeez."

She smiled sweetly and grabbed a cup, filling it with water from the tap. "Would you like a glass, Tony?" she asked, turning towards him again.

"This is my place. Shouldn't I be offering you the drinks, not the other way around?"

"Probably. But you were making no effort so I decided to take the initiative myself," she replied, shrugging her shoulders. "You didn't answer me though, do you want something?"

"You mean besides OSU to win the National Championship next year?" She rolled her eyes at him. "No, I'm fine. But I appreciate the chivalrous offer." He leaned back into the sofa, clasping his fingers behind his head and started to prop his feet on his coffee table when a glass full of water beat him to the spot.

"Too late. I got you one anyways," she said, sitting down next to him and drinking from her own identical cup.

He reached forward and picked up the glass, raising it towards her in a mild toast of thanks, and took a sip. As they sat there in silence, he looked at the clock above his television. 12:47. Thank God they didn't have to be at work in the morning and weren't on call for the weekend or the two of them—particularly him—would be in for a bad day. Although, he thought, being senior agent, if he was having a crappy day he could take it out on McGee and Ziva and then maybe they would be in the same boat after all. But Gibbs would see right through that for sure and a head slap would be called for, so maybe that wasn't the best idea. However, none of this theorizing really mattered because none of it would happen. At least not this time. None of it would happen because right now, he was sitting across his couch from his very attractive partner and they had virtually no responsibilities for another thirty hours.

"What are you thinking about right now?" she asked him softly, setting her glass on the table. He followed suit and studied her. Her hair, in pristine condition when she arrived, had gone wild; curls were everywhere, mingling, tangling, flying, and yet still looking like perfection. The trip in the rain had done a number on her makeup, and despite her attempts to wash the smears off in the bathroom, he could still see faint smudges of mascara underneath her eyes. He could remember when he first met her and she didn't wear any at all; she far from needed it, but those simple feminine touches combined with her fierce personality drove him crazy. And he'd be damned if he wanted to see her in anything but his own clothes for the rest of either of their lives.

"If you want to learn another quick idiom, you could have said 'a penny for your thoughts' and it means the same thing," he started. "And I know that doesn't make sense but just go with it," he added, practically seeing the wheels turning in her mind as she worked it out. He had no desire to explain. "As a matter of fact, I am thinking about how we don't have to be at work in the morning. There's literally no chance that we might have to be there, either. So we don't have to worry about anything for a while." Satisfied with his answer without giving away the finer details of his thoughts, he stopped, waiting for her response.

"That is all you were thinking," she stated skeptically, raising an eyebrow. "Down and to the left, Tony, when will you ever learn? I catch it every. Single. Time." Her laughter rang out as he grimaced.

"It wasn't a _lie_," he explained, "it just maybe wasn't the whole truth."

"And why would you not tell me the whole truth?" she asked playfully, clearly knowing his general answer.

"Well Ziva, since you're being so nosy, I'll just tell you. I was thinking about how glad I was that it's the weekend and we're not on call, so we don't have to even so much as think about work until Monday morning. I was thinking that if we did have to go in, I would be a real asshole all day to you and Probie since I've barely slept at all for the past three days. But then I thought about how we're here now, and work is our last concern." She opened her mouth to interrupt, but he cut her off before she could even begin. "No, wait, I'm not done. You wanted this and so now I've decided I've got something to say. So yeah, work is number ten on our list of priorities. That's about when you asked me what I was thinking, and so naturally at that point I started thinking of you. And how ridiculous you look, all messed up from the rain, wearing my clothes. No, don't give me that death glare. How ridiculous you look, but how damn _good_ that ridiculous was. Fantastic, actually. It's almost one in the morning and you're sitting on my couch wearing stuff that I wear. And I mean, really-"

By then, she had had enough. She leaned forward swiftly and pressed her mouth against his, effectively shutting him up. Who knew what he was rambling about anyways; his cow-licked hair and generally disheveled, yet still undeniably attractive, appearance were far too distracting for her to concentrate on his endless dialogue.

It took him an embarrassingly short amount of time to respond to her, moaning in delight almost the instant their lips touched. His hands delved into her hair, determined to make it even wilder. She tilted her head and their mouths fused as his tongue snuck in between her lips. One of his hands escaped her mass of curls to wrap around her waist and draw her into him, nearly sitting her completely in his lap. At the extended bodily contact, she sucked in a breath through her nose and ran one hand up his side while the other snatched at the hair on the nape of his neck.

Again, he groaned, and reluctantly tore his mouth away from hers, only to lay searing kisses across her jaw and down her neck. She sighed with pleasure, but quickly grew impatient and pulled his face back up to hers for another smoldering kiss. His hands found their way down her back and around her hips, teasing the soft skin above the waistband of the shorts she was wearing. He grabbed the hem of the shirt and roughly tugged it over her head.

"I thought you said you liked your clothes on me," she said breathlessly.

"I do. But I like them off of you much better," he replied, before running his hands over her bare skin as her mouth fell onto his once more.

Slowly, they stood up together, mouths still connected in some way to the other, and struggled towards his bedroom. Their hands roamed freely, caressing and holding. Each step forward was countered with the proverbial two steps back; coordination was not being accomplished and their desire to remain touching overruled any common sense.

One particular step led them close to the coffee table. Ziva, walking backwards, brushed the side of it with her knee, but when Tony swung around he knocked into it fully, toppling both glasses of water which cascaded across the table, onto their legs, and landed on the floor. They broke apart in surprise and surveyed the damage.

"Well, then," he commented, as Ziva rushed to the kitchen for paper towels. She came back and they mopped up the mess, laughing at their clumsiness.

When they were finished, they stood there between the coffee table and couch, looking at each other. It should have felt awkward, she thought, as the silence continued. But, to her pleasant surprise, it wasn't. So she reached up and gently laid her mouth on his once again sweetly and they made their way into his room.

* * *

**Note: Bah, awkward ending! Couldn't think of any better way to end it though, so there you have it, folks. Only one more chapter! I can promise that it will be up in no more than a few days; I've got to start packing soon and I need to get this done before I leave for school.**

**Hope you've enjoyed this. Please review!**


	10. Chapter 10

**(Final!) Note:** **Well, my friends, we have reached the end! Thanks to everyone who reviewed, tagged this story on their alerts, or made it (and/or me) a favorite. This took so much longer than I ever anticipated- I had no intention of dragging this out past the end of the season, let alone through the whole summer. Also, I really do recommend going and listening to the song ('Don't You Want To Share The Guilt?' by Kate Nash) because the whole song itself is kind of how I feel their reconciliation was. I think you'll know what I mean if you listen to the song, just the way the style and tempo changes from beginning to end. And if you disagree it's still a good song. But, without further ado—**

* * *

_Don't you want to share the guilt?  
__Don't think; just try and sleep._

"I think there are enough clothes on this floor for both of us to stay dressed for a week," Ziva said contently, still slightly out of breath.

"Sure, but you might look weird going into work in my boxers," he replied, pointing out that the overwhelming majority of haphazardly discarded clothes were, in fact, his. She tilted her head, conceding defeat. Her hair cascaded across the pillow and bed, some wayward strands tickling his chest.

"Fair enough," she said, twisting so her body was pressed up against his with a hand on his chest. "This is nice," she murmured, breathing into his neck.

"What's nice?" he asked. "That I'm going to have to have one hell of a laundry load, or the fact that it's almost two in the morning and neither of us have slept in a couple days?"

"You do not have to make a joke about it, Tony," she responded quietly, immediately inciting mild shame in him. "I like you without all the jokes. This is nice, just being here. With you." Sensing his guilt, she added, her eyes laughing, "But I still do like the jokes."

He let out a sarcastic, breathy laugh before wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her tighter against him. "I like this too," he whispered into her hair, and he could feel her smile pressed into his shoulder.

For whatever reason, he was suddenly overcome with an urge to recite a poem or sing a sickeningly sappy love song. If he knew a sonnet, he'd surely be spitting it out. It was like _The Notebook_ was playing over and over in his head…and he hated that movie.

What the hell was happening to him?

Sure, they had overcome the speed bumps of the past however-long-it-had-been, most significantly the untimely and unexpected disaster of Dana Hutton. God, he thought, he could not have made a bigger mistake there. It was like high school all over again—falling for the unattainable girl, getting in way over his head, the inevitable tragedy…what was that word he learned in senior English? Unrequited. It had been a mess, no doubt about that. He wondered how long it would take him to actually use Gibbs' rules when they applied. So far, nearly a decade's worth of head slaps apparently hadn't worked. The blatant disregard of rule 10 had proven that. The small solace he found in Gibbs' confession of it being the hardest rule for him did almost no good when he thought about how easy it would have been to just walk away from the situation. And when he thought about how much it probably ate at Ziva.

After Paris, he figured things would have been better. The post-Somalia awkwardness and tiptoeing had become unbearable, even with the occasional relief (like his damn blue teeth…he still needed to get her back for that one). Then Werth showed up, and he made sure that somebody in Ohio would keep the bastard there so it wouldn't be an issue anymore. Still, the jealousy would surface from time to time, even with Werth gone, and he found himself making plans. Plans for _Probie_ to set up him, for Christ's sake. Then the Brenda Bittner fiasco…and then Dana. All within a wickedly short amount of time, it was no surprise that his relationship with Ziva had been on the rocks.

Relationship. What a loaded word. There was hardly another word in the English language that had more meanings. But at the same time, he thought, weren't they all really the same? Varying degrees of severity, no doubt, yet they were all simply an association with another person. Over the years, he had run the gamut of 'relationships' with Ziva. Acquaintances, co-workers, partners, friends, enemies…and now who even knew what to name it. When he thought about the word itself, though, he—along with most of the general population—assumed 'relationship' was the equivalent of 'dating.' And while he did enjoy his current company, most particularly in the current state they were in, he didn't know if he wanted to call it _dating_.

Another loaded word.

Dating meant actually going on _dates_, going to the movies and baseball games and out to dinner. It meant remembering anniversaries, late night phone calls, the inability to appreciate another woman on a purely physical level. It meant that dreaded word—commitment. And, he rationalized, Ziva probably wouldn't be too keen on any of those things anyways.

But at the same time, dating could mean many more nights like this one. It could mean those weekends spent away from the Navy Yard, completely off call, no responsibility, would not be spent re-watching old movies or drinking himself silly at a bar where more and more people were turning up who were half his age. Maybe these options were actually better. If he didn't think Ziva would care all that much about the sentimental, cheesy values of dating, then didn't this enjoyment outweigh the downsides? Really, were there any downsides at all? Dating could be a viable option.

Oh. Wait. Damn. As soon as he worked himself into thinking dating was a good plan, he remembered Gibbs. Which was rather ironic and definitely a buzz kill, he thought, as he internally grimaced. To be dating would be breaking a rule. A rather stringent and serious rule, as he recalled. He didn't tell their witness on the plain that it can't be done for nothing.

Apparently his silence had caught the attention of Ziva and his attitude was not as internal as he could have guessed. "What is the matter, Tony? You are awfully quiet," she said, twisting so she could look at his face, her eyes full of concern.

"I'm just thinking about things," he replied, pressing his lips against hers briefly. "Things that I really shouldn't be thinking about, but I can't help it because they'll probably end up being pretty important."

"Rule 12?" she asked.

"I still don't know how you can read my mind, but I'm determined to find out one of these days. And yes, rule 12," he answered, looking down at her.

"Are we dating?"

He stopped. Were they? Sure, his inner monologue had toyed with the idea as a potential success, but was it really the best option? Rule 12 aside, maybe they weren't the best two people to be in a relationship (there was that pesky word again) together. Neither had an outstanding track record and contrary to popular belief, fighting fire with fire only burned shit down.

"I don't even know," he carefully responded, gauging her reaction. "I mean, I don't think I would call this dating, per se, not in the traditional sense. But we've definitely crossed some sort of line."

She smirked. "I thought you said we were not going to worry about work until we got back to the office on Monday. We still have a good twenty eight hours."

"True. But we may need to spend those twenty eight hours dealing with collateral damage, coming up with a game plan for what we _are_ going to need to worry about on Monday. Because the only person who can read minds better than you is Gibbs. And Gibbs is the one with all this rules in the first place, and frankly, I actually do enjoy my job and would like to keep it."

"Well as long as we are not dating in the 'traditional sense,' as you called it, then I really do not see a problem," she told him, raising an eyebrow.

"This coming from the girl who is so intent on 'following orders,'" he replied, smiling slightly.

"Surely we are not pretending that rules have not been broken before. Rule 12 in particular. McGee and Abby had a thing, yes? Palmer and Agent Lee? And if Gibbs taught Jenny all of the rules, then that means rule 12 was in place when they were in Paris. He has broken his own rule, Tony. You do not need to be concerned about it, not yet at least."

"And how many of those relationships ended up successful? Only one still has two living members," he scoffed.

"Tony. We have already broken plenty of rules ourselves and we are both still alive and we both still have our jobs. Until something changes, what Gibbs does not know will not hurt him," she said, running her hand through his hair. "Besides, we have not come to the conclusion that we are, in fact, dating."

He looked at her. Was she seriously calling this something besides dating? Did she even _want_ to be dating? This was all very confusing, he decided, yet another reason why dating was not his forte.

"Even so, you don't think Gibbs will slap the hell out of the backs of our heads when he finds out about this?" he asked, gesturing between them. "Because if that's where your train of thought is, then there's a serious problem here."

"I am _saying_ that Gibbs is not going to find out. That is unless you have some twisted death-by-cop suicide planned out that I was unaware of. In that case, I highly disagree with your life choices."

"Funny," he said sarcastically, tugging gently at one of the pieces of her hair that was still on his chest. "But I'm trying to be realistic here. Like I said, Gibbs can read minds even more skillfully than you. I don't know how you're planning on avoiding this confrontation, because when it comes, it will be horrendous."

"He might be able to read minds better than me, especially since I do not read minds at all, but I, unlike you apparently, will not fold under pressure. If he asks—which I do not anticipate—then he is not going to figure anything out. Really, I think the rules are more of a threat and do not hold any lasting consequences. They were made to scare you, not for enforcement. For him to have broken as many as he has himself, and for him to still be around, I cannot imagine he would fire you over something like this."

Her logic was ridiculous, he thought. Ridiculous…yet somehow it completely made sense. Gibbs _had_ broken a lot of rules, hadn't he? Maybe not a ton, but enough that for him to not be head slapping himself meant that there was hope. Then again, Gibbs _was_ the boss man.

"Well, Ziva, my pragmatic princess, how many of these rules do you think _we_ have broken? Rule 12 notwithstanding, of course, since…well. Anyways. What's the body count?" he asked her, wondering how deep in the hole he may end up when Monday came around.

"Rule number one is out the window. Jenny's version at least," she started. At his look of confusion, she clarified. "Never screw your partner. Gibbs meant 'never screw _over_ your partner,' but I would say the first way is almost as important. Regardless, that one was broken in Paris."

"That's true, I guess. We broke that one, no matter which way you prefer it goes. Not to get awkwardly sentimental, but I will say that I broke rule number eight about a hundred different ways these past few days. I really am sorry for everything that happened. I took this…whatever it is, for granted, I took _you_ for granted, and if I were a raging masochist I would head slap myself," he said, scratching his head and chuckling softly.

"I can say the same, Tony," she countered. "I know I have already told you, but I am sorry for last year and how I treated you. Do not try and fight me on this, we both know I will win. If you get to apologize again for something so inconsequential, then I get to as well."

"Okay, fine. I suppose rule number six is long gone too. Between the two of us, we've apologized more in the past twelve hours than Gibbs probably has in his entire life," he added, shifting so that he sat up on his elbow.

"Oh, good one," she said, "I had not considered that one yet, because I am not very fond of that particular rule, but I agree. We have equally shared the guilt, whether or not it seems like it."

"True. Why don't you like rule number six?" he asked curiously.

"Even with my…unconventional upbringing, I have always thought that apologies were a sign of strength. They prove that you are willing to swallow your pride, take matters into your own hands, and fix things. Not apologizing, while it appears to make you more fearful and self-assured, really just sort of makes you seem…petty. Like you are arrogant and childish, you are unable to get over the past," she explained.

"I can honestly say I had never thought about that before. Fortunately for us, though, Gibbs is not here to see any of this, most importantly our abundant apologies, among other things," he said with a smirk, but not without the slightest worry still in his eyes.

She sighed. "Rule 18 will save us every time, Tony."

"Rule 18? Always work as a team? I'm pretty sure that's the exact opposite of saving us. That pretty much digs our graves," he answered.

"No, that is rule number 15. Rule 18: 'it's better to seek forgiveness than ask permission.' As far as Gibbs' rules go, that one can override quite a few of the others." Her justification was cut off by a large yawn, and he looked at the clock, the shining red numbers reading 2:36. Even without any responsibility for the next several hours, Monday morning would not be fun.

"I think it might be time to sleep," he whispered as she rubbed her hands over her eyes. "No need to worry about rules for a while."

"Is that not what I have been trying to tell you all along?" Her eyelids fluttered, trying desperately to stay open.

"Maybe so. I should probably listen to you more often."

"I think that is the best idea you have had all evening," she whispered, her words slurring slightly.

"Don't think," he said, yawning and settling himself further under the covers. "Thinking can wait. Now, it's time to sleep."

_The End_


End file.
